


Like a Bomb in a Birdcage

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Carter awakes in a tower. AU, season 9-ish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a Bomb in a Birdcage

Opulent. It’s an archaic word, but the only one Sam can think of as she takes in the heavy-set armchair, the deep pile carpet, the velvet curtains hung at the wide window that overlooks a lake framed by mountains. Both room and view remind her of a childhood holiday in the Scottish Highlands, but the reality is she’s a world away from Scotland.

The reality is that, for all the room’s opulence, she is still a prisoner. The wooden door is locked, while an energy field shimmers at the window in the place of glass. She doesn’t quite remember how she got here – her last coherent memory is of the banquet she and the rest of SG-1 were guests at. She surmises that the wine was drugged, though she’s no idea why.

She’s no idea where the rest of her team is, either. Sam isn’t worried, not exactly, but she’s a reasonable amount of concern. This is largely because the hall where they enjoyed the banquet was nowhere near a lake. Where is she? Is it the same planet, or was she moved elsewhere while unconscious?

She was certainly stripped – she wears a medieval-style dress in deep blue velvet trimmed in silver in place of her familiar uniform. Her reflection shows that it fits well and that she even looks pretty good, but she’d rather have a revolver strapped to her thigh. She’d rather not be the princess trapped in a tower.

The question is: if she is a princess, then what guards her? Is it an ogre or a dragon? She’s seen nothing of her capturer. Heard nothing either – the young, blond-haired maid who’s brought her food will not engage in any conversation. Sam doesn’t even know her name.

As often as she’s worked late into the night, on her own, the hours of isolation are getting to her. The room has a bathroom on one side and a bedroom on the other, yet she feels confined, trapped. And frustrated as hell. She’d be angry, except there’s no target for that emotion. There’s nothing to do at all.

On the fourth morning, the maid brings a book along with breakfast. Sam picks up the leather-bound early edition of The Hobbit and arches an eyebrow in surprise.

“Our lord regrets that he has not been able to greet your properly,” the young woman says. “He hopes that this will alleviate any boredom you experience.”

It’s the first contact Sam’s had in five days and she dives on it. “Who is he? What’s his name?”

But the maid shakes her head and backs out of the room. Frustration snaps something within Sam and she flings the book at the locked door. After several minutes, her temper settles back to a begrudging acceptance that there’s nothing for it but eat.

When she’s done, she recovers the book, feeling a little sorry for abusing it. It’s survived its ordeal with only a few bent pages, which she smoothes out before flicking to the first page. She reads until the setting sun means there’s no more light. Then she changes into the nightwear that’s been provided and climbs into bed.

It takes her ages to settle, though. She’s not used to doing so little and brims with unspent energy. Her frustrations return with a vengeance, leaving her antsy. She gets up and paces. A cage is a cage, no matter how gilded its bars are, and Sam is feeling hemmed in, feels like she’s set to explode.

Whoever has captured her doesn’t have a canary in their birdcage, but a bomb.

And she’s ticking down to detonation.


	2. The Ride We Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taken from her tower, Sam finds herself on a journey.

Sam has just managed to jig the lock with the fork she’s stolen, when the handle turns. She jumps back to avoid being walloped by the door. Her embarrassment at being caught mid-escape evaporates at the tingle that dances over her skin.

Goa’uld.

The Jaffa soldier bears no mark on his forehead, nor wears a uniform that Sam recognises. She looks at the ‘zat in his hand. “That’s not–”

Electricity jolts through her.

When she comes to again, everything is dark. After a moment, she realises it’s a cloth over her eyes, and that her hands are bound behind her. Some thought to her comfort has been given and she’s lying on a thin mattress. Wherever she is, it’s in motion; the vehicle sways from side to side, though there’s no hum of an engine.

The tingle is more pronounced, which mean the Goa’uld is in close proximity. There aren’t many of them left now, and fewer that would devise a scheme this daring. She has her suspicions as to who’s taken her. The real question is why.

“Hello?”

“Colonel Carter.”

The low, slightly accented voice doesn’t carry the symbiotic flange, but is recognisable regardless. Sam is torn between relief that she knows him and annoyance at the same fact.

“Baal.”

“I should apologise, I suppose. However my measures, though extreme, are necessary.”

“For what, pissing me off?”

“For addressing a problem we both face.”

Sam frowns. A quick wriggle confirms that her hands have been tied too tight to escape easily. “Kidnapping and tying me up haven’t won you much gratitude,” she tells him. “If you were expecting my help.”

“That wasn’t my idea, actually. But you were attempting to escape.”

“Of course I was! What else was I meant to do, considering my position?”

Baal sighs. “Exactly that. If there had been another way, if I believed that the SGC would listen rather than make jests, then this would never have happened. However, our… interaction during the Replicators left a lasting impression. You Tau’ri are more than happy to leave the Goa’uld to defend themselves, even if that results in the death of thousands.”

“Don’t take the moral high ground with me, Baal – you’ll find just a little shaky.” Sam manages to pull herself into a sitting position. The side of their transport is wooden. A wagon? That hardly seems like him. “Where are we?”

“North of the castle.”

“Well that’s enlightening.”

“Headed towards an Ancient stronghold abandoned some years ago. My research into their technology, coupled with information from the database you handed, leads me to believe there is at least further intel on the Ori there.” His tone hardens. “I am hoping for more.”

It occurs to Sam that Baal is quietly furious. She knows him well enough to dial back on her responses – irritating him would be like throwing gas on a fire and she’s little wish to end up burnt.

“Look,” she says in what she hopes is a reasonable tone. “I’m here now. It’s not like I can go anywhere else. If I agree to… assist, would you unbind me?”

“I’m afraid that I’ve little faith in your word, Colonel.”

“Then at least take the blindfold off.” She takes a deep breath. “Please.”

The grind of wheels lessens and then stops altogether. The wagon rocks violently, then a hand grips her elbow and pulls her up. Sam blinks as the cloth is removed – though it’s either very early or quite late, the dim light is still enough to hurt her eyes after going so long in the dark.

She squints up at Baal, managing a thin smile. “Thank you.”

“You can join me up front,” he tells her, then shoves her in that direction. They are in a wagon; a covered one that seems to come straight out a John Wayne movie.

“What’s with the antique transport?” she asks, sitting on the narrow bench seat. Baal sits next to her, picks up the reins and then nudges the piebald horse into motion.

“The stronghold has certain… measures that prevent approach by conventional means.”

Sam bites her bottom lip. Once she’s sure she won’t laugh outright, she ventures; “I guess you found that out the hard way?” His answer is a withering glare. “Okay.”

“Shut up,” he snaps.

“I didn’t say a word.”


	3. Come On, Come Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps she can turn this whole affair to her advantage.

It turns out to be early morning and dawn breaks just as the wagon reaches the top of the hill it’s been climbing for a good twenty minutes. The structure is not unlike Atlantis; if that it were built from tawny-coloured stone. Time and weather have taken their toll – the central tower has collapsed in on itself while ivy tangles over the shattered windows.

Sam takes it all in, then twists on the bench to look at Baal. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“There is technology protecting something of note,” he replies, though his eyes reflect the uncertainty she feels. “Whether that is note-worthy in _our_ opinion is another matter.”

“I hope it is. I’d hate for you to have gone into the trouble of kidnapping me for nothing.”

He huffs and wraps the reins around the iron bar between them. Sam watches him jump down, the motion smooth and graceful, and knows she can’t ape it. Not with her hands tied behind her back. He probably wants to see her face down in the dirt.

She’s barely finished the thought when Baal rounds the wagon. He reaches for her, his gaze meeting hers in silent question. Unless she wants to end up in the dirt, there’s little choice but to wiggle her way to the edge of the bench and let him lift her down.

His hands span her waist. Sam’s a little surprised that they don’t wander, but her feet touch the ground without him touching her up. He then spins her round and the rope at her wrists finally loosens. Any thought she might have as to an escape dies at the electrical zing of a ’zat being charged.

“This way,” is all he says, motioning with the ’zat.

Rubbing at her wrists, Sam dodges the chunks of building on her way to the gaping entrance. Double doors in faded gold dangle from their hinges. She steps through the archway into the hall beyond, looks around the dilapidated room, then drops her gaze to Baal.

“Coming, then?”

He gives the arch a wary glance and steps in. Or at least he _tries_ to – what actually happens is a red web of light flares and he hits an invisible wall. A wall that promptly throws him backwards. Sam winces as he crashes to the ground a good ten foot away from the building.

“Baal?”

He doesn’t move. Sam would be normally be pleased and use the opportunity to make a run for freedom, but she’s no idea where the Stargate is. If there _is_ one – for all she knows, he brought her here by ship and there’s no way off the planet unless he allows it.

It’s this thought that propels her to his side. His eyes are closed, but the rictus of pain on his face tells her that he’s conscious.

“Don’t try to move,” she orders quietly, hands already feeling for broken bones. Can a symbiote heal a ruptured spinal column? She’s no idea and isn’t in a hurry to find out. “Can you feel your legs?”

One eye cracks open. “I’d rather you feel them,” he says, trademark smirk in place. It’s mildly spoilt by the whiteness of his lips. “I’m fine, Samantha, though your concern in touching.”

“Don’t!” she yelps as he puts one hand on the grass, but it’s too late and he pushes himself up. Relief battles with irritation that she was worried in the first place. She smacks him on the arm. “Idiot.”

“It would seem there are measures to stop my kind from entering the building.”

Baal gets to his feet and brushes grass off his clothing. Sam notes he’s a little unsteady, but bites her lip – she’s no intention of making herself look more concerned than she already has.

“I thought the Ancients here were more worried about the Ori,” she says. “So why’s there a Goa’uld lock?”

“That might not have been put in place by the Ancients. Or they were keeping their options open. I do not care about the whys but rather the how we’re going to get in.”

“ _I_ don’t appear to have a problem.” Sam grins at his dirty glare. “What?”

“You don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“And you do?”

“Of course.” Baal squares his shoulders with a sniff. “I am a God.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “A god who’s just had his ass handed to him by Ancient technology.”

This wins her a withering look, then he heads back to the doorway. Sam stands and follows him, curious as to whether he’s going to try the entrance again. But all he does is pore over the script engraved into the frame. The sight oddly reminds Sam of Daniel and she feels a pang.

“You do realise my team going to be looking for me.”

“I do.”

“They’re going to be pissed off with you.”

“I believe I can cope with their censure. It’s not as if we were ever on reasonable terms.”

There’s something vaguely wistful in his voice. Sam tilts her head. “Would you rather be?”

Baal stills. “It’s far too late to change things now.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He glances at her. “It’s the only one you’re going to get, Samantha.”

She purses her lips. There are few Goa’uld left, with Baal being the last major player. As the Ori are pushing ever further into the galaxy, an alliance with him would be far more sensible than fighting a war on two fronts. Pity neither the SGC nor the IOA would ever go for such a plan.

At least not officially. He doesn’t trust her an more than she does him, but perhaps she can turn this whole affair to her advantage. Show him that she is willing to work with him. Cultivate a little trust.

Get him on their side.

Sam shoulders him over. “Let me see. There has to be a way of disabling that device.”

She ignores the incredulous look this gains her. Let him wonder. It’ll do him some good to be less sure of the situation for once.


	4. The Day's Still Ashes

Things go much better after Sam discovers one of the “bricks” is actually the cover hiding a rack of crystals. Without her tablet, she has to guess at the order to disable the anti-Goa'uld device, but thankfully Baal chooses to keep his mouth shut for once. It's easier to concentrate when he's not running commentary.

“All right, I think I have it. Just... don't rush it. I don't want to be picking you up off the ground again.”

She watches him reach a hand towards the entrance. Nothing happens. He takes a small step, then another. Nothing continues to happen. Baal squares his shoulders and steps inside. This time he stays there.

At least he can't moan at her now. She wanders after him and gets a better look at the Gateroom.

There's nothing left of the 'Gate other than a couple of stumps. Thick dust covers the dialling device and other consoles. Moss and dead leaves litter the floor. A spiral staircase leads to the other floors, but Sam isn't sure she'd risk trying to climb it.

“So what are we looking for?”

“Information.”

Well, that was enlightening. “What information?”

Baal frowned at her. What the heck had she said wrong now? Then he ran his gaze around the interior of the stronghold; his expression clearly indicating he was looking for something in particular. He stops facing one corridor, then strides off.

“This way,” he throws over his shoulder.

Sam rolls her eyes and trails after him. The corridor reminds her even stronger of Atlantis. She keeps that observation to herself – the last thing she needs is for him to know she's been there.

Baal opens a side door. Inside is a platform similar to the one in Atlantis' hologram room. Lights hum into life as the two of them walk over. He steps onto the platform but rather than a know-it-all Ancient woman, what fills the room is a series of ethereal squares, each containing type.

“They're files,” she says as the realisation hits. “This is what you're looking for.”

“Some of it, yes.” Baal moves a half-egg, turning the 'pages'. “I'm only interested in the data held on the Ori.”

“Do you really think there'll be something here that will help?”

“Sadly, I have no idea. Also sadly, I have little choice but to check.”

Yeah, it was like that. Sam sidles closer and peers at the 'pages'. It's an older dialect of Ancient than she's used to, so can only read the odd word. Baal doesn't seem to be having any difficulty. She refuses to ask about that.

Still, her gaze catches a word. “Wait,” she says, putting hand on his arm. “Go back one.”

“Why? It's nothing about the device, just details of some skirmish or other.”

Sam tips her head up to meet his eyes. “Please.”

Baal sighs, but back-pages anyway. “Huh. Seems like the stronghold was brought down by an Ori fleet some three hundred years ago.”

He taps at the bottom of the square. It flickers and then brings up a series of images. Though Sam's fought many a war, has killed more than she wants to think about, the graphic pictures make her turn away. The Ori showed no mercy in their attack. Not that she's surprised by that – she's seen villages with no means of defending themselves burnt to the ground.

Another picture flicks up as she glances back. It's the stronghold before the battle, in all its towering glory. Baal shakes his head and closes the square.

“You brought a severe plague upon this galaxy, Samantha.”

“It wasn't intentional,” she murmurs. “And at least we are trying to do something about it.”

“Granted.” He moves the egg again, flickering through more pages. “Ah, now this might prove to be more useful. Potted history of the Ori.”

Sam bites her bottom lip at such a human phrase coming from his mouth. “Those nine months you spent on Earth are showing,” she tells him.

“I know. I might never rid myself of that corruption.”

“Only you would consider humanity a corruption.” Bitterness tinges her tone and she winces. Arguing with him isn't going to get him on her side. “So what now?”

“Now we download this and get back to the castle.”

Sam looks at the shifting squares. “But all that information...”

“We don't have time, Samantha. Nor the resources.”

“But...” She stares up, wondering at the incalculable loss. “Who knows what more could be hidden amongst these files?”

Baal's half-smile is cold. “Such as a final solution to the Goa'uld? There are so few of us now. It'd be easy to finish us off.”

She holds his gaze without flinching. “There is more to the galaxy, to the universe, than the Goa'uld. Even than the damn Ori, or the Wraith. I'd rather find allies than enemies, Baal.”

The hard lines of his expression soften. He turns back to the console and moves the egg; across, down, up and across, then down again. The square vanishes. He moves the egg once more, flicks to a different square, then repeats the process.

The platform goes dark as he steps off, the silent broken by a faint whirring. A blue-grey crystal emerges from the top of the console. Baal picks it up, then almost cradles it in his hands, his eyes fathomless.

“Baal?”

“They had this information, yet they still lost. Everything.”

Sam steps closer and enfolds his hands in hers. “That was them, and we don't know how long they had it, nor the circumstances. All we can do is try. If we give up, we hand the Ori the galaxy.”

His eyes lift and a smile touches his lips. “Ah, the human race. Always so plucky. I think that's why I like you so much.”

Staring into those chocolate-brown depths, Sam is tempted to ask if that's a general “you” or if he's being personal. His skin is warm and his proximity fizzes the naquadah in her blood. And he's being... nice. Normal.

Human.

She's finding herself forgetting what he is, and she can't. It could never work, not in a million years. The IOA would have a fit. Not that she's considering flipping them the bird and doing it anyway. So she gives him a look and drops her hands. Creates a space between them.

“Come on,” she says, putting fake impatience into her voice. He cannot possibly be allowed to even suspect the kind of thoughts she's having. “Let's get back to that stupid castle of yours and decide what we're doing next.”

As Sam walks out of the stronghold, she can't help shake a sense of melancholy, that she's left something behind in the ashes.


End file.
